


in remote part

by marginaliana



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Feels, Insomnia, Jeremy needs a hug, M/M, TGT series 1, Touch-Starved, they both have a lot of feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22427011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Late one night Jeremy calls in a favor with James, but the moment turns into something that will, inevitably, change things.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/James May
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	1. in

It's late, and James is almost asleep when his phone rings, so it takes him a long moment of confused fumbling to find the phone on the bedside table in the dark. When he sees Jeremy's name on the screen he momentarily considers not answering, but then the ring shrills out again and his thumb slides across the screen automatically, more out of a desire to silence the noise than anything else. He lifts the phone to his ear. ″What is it, Jez?″ If Jeremy's going to call at arse o'clock, he'll have to take what he can get in terms of the civilities.

″C'n I come over?″ Jeremy sounds drunk; more than drunk, really – skating the edge of unintelligible. 

″Now?″ says James. He sits up sharply. ″What for?″ It had better not be some new crisis, something disastrous that Jeremy's said or done tonight that will be in the papers tomorrow. If so, James thinks he might rather hear it over the phone rather than in person; at least if Jeremy tells him over the phone, James can hang up on him.

″'s nothing terrible,″ Jeremy protests, dragging out the last word. ″Jus' need to see you.″

James doesn't know what the issue could possibly be, that Jeremy needs to see him and not just talk to him, if it's not a crisis. They'd seen each other a couple of weeks ago, at the signing for the Amazon contracts – honestly they hadn't even all needed to be there but for the symbolism of it, of being together and being seen together. And they'll see each other again in a week, when they have an office and a budget and an actual schedule for making things happen. 

″Jezza…″ 

″James.″ There's something in the way he says it, a half-hidden pleading of the kind that Jeremy doesn't often display. But they've been through enough shit together that James knows the sound of Jeremy truly in distress.

″Fine,″ he says. ″Come over if you're coming.″

″Twenty minutes,″ Jeremy says, and hangs up.

James gets up. He considers putting on jeans, but sleep-addled laziness makes him opt for pajama trousers instead, warm blue flannel softened with age, and today's tee-shirt pulled back out of the laundry hamper. If he sits down on the sofa he'll be in definite danger of falling asleep, so he forces himself to stand by the door, looking out through the glass onto the emptiness of the street. It's lit rather indifferently by the streetlamps, pools of washed-out yellow amidst the grey, but there's something romantic about it nonetheless – the lack of movement makes the place seem alien, not like London at all but some lost, mirrored version of itself.

Of course, if he actually opened the door and listened, it would just sound like London – honking and shouting and sirens and all.

James is in the midst of idly contemplating how to turn this idea into a short film for their new show when the cab pulls up. He watches Jeremy pay the cabbie and then come up the walk; as he passes under the streetlamp James can see that he looks bloody awful – dark circles under his eyes and skin drooping around his mouth and chin, like he's lost weight just in the weeks since James has seen him. 

_Jesus_ , James thinks. He opens the door before Jeremy can ring the bell.

″May,″ Jeremy says. His voice has a hint of alcoholic thickness, but he doesn't sound much like the too-loose drunk of twenty minutes ago or even his usual sozzled easiness. He's wound tight instead, as if something has sobered him in between their conversation and now.

″Clarkson,″ James says, holding the door open. 

Jeremy hesitates for a split second, then moves past him into the hall, kicking off his shoes without having to be asked and hanging his coat on a hook. James leads him into the sitting room and realizes abruptly that he hasn't even remembered to turn on a light – but when he reaches for the switch, Jeremy says, ″ _Don't_ ,″ sharply. James' hand drops.

″Jez, what—″ he starts, but Jeremy cuts him off before he can finish the rest of the sentence.

″Do you remember that time in Miami?″

James flushes, hard, and takes a step back even though he knows that in the dark Jeremy probably can't tell he's blushing. Miami had been an incident with a fan and a broken down Lamborghini and a can of what had probably been processed cheese product. Miami had been one of the most embarrassing nights of his entire life, and he'd ended up owing Jeremy an immense favor just to make him keep quiet about it.

″You said you'd never mention that again,″ James says.

″I'm not _mentioning_ it,″ Jeremy says, sounding genuinely like himself for the first time. ″I'm just saying, you owe me a favor.″

″For never mentioning it again, yes,″ says James, pointedly.

″Right. Well I'm calling it in,″ Jeremy says.

James stares at the shadowed shape of him for a moment, uncomprehending. ″You're calling in what I owe you? Now?″

″That's generally the nature of favors,″ says Jeremy. ″They get called in when it's convenient for the person you owe, not when it's convenient for you. Anyway, all I'm asking for is an hour.″

″An hour of what?″ says James warily.

″An hour for you to do what I want,″ Jeremy says, and then, obviously anticipating James' reaction to that, ″For god's sake, man, I'm not going to make you put on frilly knickers and run down the high street singing Dancing Queen. You won't even have to leave the house.″

James can hear it again, that half-hidden pleading again, underlying this last bit of flippant banter. He feels abruptly ashamed of himself. Obviously Jeremy needs something, needs it badly enough that he's gone to calling in five-year-old favors to get it. Who is James to question him at a time like this?

″All right,″ he says. ″An hour. Tell me what to do.″

Jeremy blows out a breath, hard, as if he hadn't expected James to give in so easily, or indeed at all. ″Sit down,″ he says after a pause. There is just enough light seeping in through the blinds that James can see the swing of his arm as he indicates the sofa. James' eyebrows furrow, but he crosses the three steps to the left end of the sofa and sits. Jeremy says, ″Stay there. And just don't— Don't say anything.″

James just nods, still rather baffled. Jeremy dithers for a moment, then comes to sit beside him on the sofa, closer than he usually does when they're eating curry and watching war movies. Very close. Close enough that James can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of Jeremy's tee shirt and his own, can feel the way Jeremy's thigh is trembling, just slightly, where it's pressed up against James'.

Jeremy hesitates a moment longer, then reaches down and wraps his fingers around James' wrist, tugs James' arm up and over his shoulders into an awkward embrace. 

For a long, stupid moment James has no idea what is going on. Then realization blooms, and his heart drops.

Despite his own general preference for solitude, he's not entirely unfamiliar with the idea of wanting to be touched. There have been times – when they were between series of Top Gear and he hadn't anything else on, generally – when he'd found himself craving the feeling of someone else's skin against his own skin, the presence of another body. It was a problem that he'd usually solved by visiting his parents or his sister, or by calling up a mate to work on a motorbike together (enough touch there, handing parts and tools back and forth), or by calling up Oz Clarke for literally anything at all. He'd never needed much, not more than he could get in the ordinary sort of way.

It doesn't surprise him that Jeremy needs it more. For all his blustering about manliness he's a sensitive sort of bloke, a person who feels things. He's deeply social, too – the kind of person who likes people and wants to be the center of their attention, for good or for ill. It makes sense that he would need the physical manifestations of that attention, too. The only thing that does surprise James is that Jeremy had come to _him_ – but then again Jeremy is divorced now, and his kids live elsewhere, and his parents are dead. He could have gone to Andy or Richard— but on second thought no, he really couldn't. Most of Jeremy's other friends have spouses and families, or are probably halfway across the globe at the moment because they work in journalism too, or are women who might get the wrong idea. Maybe James is the only one who is here, who is available, who owes Jeremy a favor. Or maybe James is the only person he could think of that wouldn't laugh in his face.

The thought sends a strange sort of thrill running through him. To be so trusted – it's different than most of the things his mates have asked of him in the past. More precious.

Without speaking, James eases himself sideways, angling their bodies together. He brings his left arm up and across, curling his fingers around the exposed skin of Jeremy's bicep and tugging him closer into a proper hug.

Jeremy makes a soft noise, nearly inaudible. He turns his face against the curve of James' throat. James can feel the delicate brush of his eyelashes there. He slides the hand on Jeremy's back upwards to the nape of his neck, letting his thumb trace circles into the skin. Jeremy's heartbeat is a low, hurried thrum. 

Slowly, slowly, Jeremy's body relaxes until he's pressed all up against James like a particularly heavy limpet. Shortly after that, his breathing evens out into the faint wheeze that James knows means he has achieved actual sleep rather than merely fitful insomniac dozing. James shifts carefully then, reaching out with a hand until he can catch his fingertips in the edge of the afghan that's slung across the back of the sofa and pull it up over Jeremy's shoulders.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, just the two of them – Jeremy asleep and James holding him, not letting himself think about anything except the physicality of the moment, about how good it feels to hold someone. Eventually he, too, falls asleep.

When he wakes in the morning he has a terrible crick in his neck, and Jeremy is gone. But the afghan is folded neatly into quarters and lain over the back of the sofa.


	2. the

When James shows up at their new office the following Monday, there are four Reliant Robins parked outside – blue, brown, white, and green. Jeremy is leaning up against the blue one, looking amused with himself. It's a good look on him – James has the rather incongruous thought that in May's Britain, Jeremy would always be smiling. He shakes it off and wanders over to dutifully admire the cars, noticing as he gets closer that each of them has a round, white logo reading 'W. Chump and Sons' on the doors. 

″Aren't they brilliant?″ Jeremy says.

″Please don't make me have the brown one,″ says James.

″They're company cars, May,″ says Jeremy chidingly. ″You'll have to take whichever one is available when you need it.″ James goes to stand beside him and lets his shoulder brush up against Jeremy's, as casually as he can manage. They're both wearing jackets so it's not as if it means anything, not really, but he does it anyway. Jeremy doesn't move away. ″Of course,″ he continues, ″I suppose it's likely that Hammond might need the brown one more often. Being as how it's the same color as the dead animal he's got stuck on his chin.″

James laughs. ″Cheers,″ he says, meeting Jeremy's eyes sideways. ″I'll owe you. A big one.″ For a moment he thinks he might have to be more obvious. But then Jeremy flushes a little, looks swiftly away and then back again. James just keeps his gaze steady, neutral.

″Don't just go throwing that kind of thing around,″ Jeremy says at last. ″You never know what kind of ridiculous bollocks someone might call it in for.″

″I don't mind,″ James says. ″I'm sure it wouldn't be anything too terrible. Otherwise we wouldn't be mates, you see.″

Jeremy swallows. ″All right,″ he says. ″So you owe me one.″ Before James can say anything else, Richard pulls up, scoffing audibly before he even gets out of his Porsche, and the moment passes.

* * *

They spend a couple of weeks in the office, working out ideas for films (some of them things they've always wanted to make but never had the money for, some of them new things like James' alien London idea) and arguing about what the show will be called and if it's going to have a theme. Jeremy doesn't come to his house again and they don't talk about it – but James tries to initiate contact with him more often than he might otherwise have done so, to nudge and jostle and slap on the back even when clearing his throat would probably work just as well. He doesn't take to that sort of mate-y physicality easily, never has, but it gets better with practice.

Eventually they split off to start filming, though the show's name and the theme still have yet to be decided. James drives one of the Robins (the brown one, to his disgust) around the city, has the obligatory breakdown, talks a lot of bollocks. It feels good to be back behind the wheel of a shit car.

Three nights after their last day in the office, Jeremy calls.

"Got any exciting new spanners?" is his opening gambit. 

James rolls his eyes. "No, but I do have the latest Bourne film on DVD. I suppose that's a bit too high-brow for you, though."

"I'll have you know that my brow is absolutely the highest," Jeremy says. 

"Possibly, considering the amount of snow it has on it."'

"I don't think that even remotely works as a metaphor," says Jeremy.

"All right, no," says James. "No, it doesn't. Anyway, what time? Half seven?"

"Sounds good. I'll bring dinner."

It's no different than a thousand conversations they've had before, but somehow James finds himself unaccountably a bit nervous as he waits. Not because of the potential for man contact but because of the potential for embarrassment. If either of them starts being too earnest then James suspects they might move quickly into the 'I wish I hadn't said that' portion of the evening, and that won't do anyone any good. 

Eventually half seven rolls around and James stops dithering on the sofa in favor of dithering in the kitchen, setting out plates and glasses and uncorking a bottle of wine that he knows Jeremy likes. Just as he's run out of things to do, the doorbell rings.

James goes to answer it, not really knowing what to expect. Probably Jeremy will be as much on board with the 'pretend everything is normal' plan as James is. Or perhaps he will be halfway to rat-arsed already, and feeling confessional. That was the problem with Jeremy. One never knew.

James opens the door. 

″Dog baiter, agitator?″ says Jeremy.

″What?″ James says, and then, as he recognizes the Genesis lyric and connects it to their argument about what to name the show, " _No_ , Jez, absolutely not. We are not calling the show anything like that.″ He falls back a step to let Jeremy in. 

″But it'll be brilliant to see the look on Hammond's face when I suggest it, won't it?″ Jeremy says, shucking shoes and coat. ″He'll be so confused and pathetic.″

James can picture it rather well, actually – the little wrinkle between Richard's eyes as he tries to work out what they're on about and then, inevitably, concludes that they're taking the piss. ″You should suggest a whole bunch of them. One lyric right after the next so that he doesn't have time to figure out what they are."

"Yes, _yes_ ," Jeremy says, snapping his fingers. "Help me come up with some others."

"Erm," James says, cudgeling his memory. " _Big noise, black smoke_?"

"Too apt."

" _Fly on a windshield_?"

" _Really_ too apt."

"Good point." They're in the kitchen now, shuffling Indian takeaway out of containers and onto plates. " _And there is in fact more earth than sea_?"

"Hmm. Bit bland."

" _In blood, he’s writing the lyrics of a brand new tune_?"

"That one's excellent. It'll put the fear of god into him," Jeremy says with a laugh. He pours them both glasses of wine and they go into the sitting room. 

James has, by now, passed out of nervousness into 'having forgotten there was even anything to be concerned about,' but it comes rushing back a little when he flops down onto the sofa. Jeremy sits down beside him, not as far away as usual but not as close as the other night, either. James covers for the sudden return of his nerves by setting his glass down onto a coaster aggressively and grabbing for the remote. 

"Director's cut?" he says.

"Of course," says Jeremy.

They eat and watch the film, cackling occasionally when an especially exciting bit of shooting happens. Jeremy finishes his dinner first and slides his plate onto the coffee table. James takes his a bit more slowly, but soon enough he's done, too. He tops up their glasses and sits back.

Half an hour later, it becomes obvious that Jeremy isn't going to move first. He keeps darting little glances at James out of the corner of his eye, fidgeting a little and then forcing his fingers to stillness around the stem of his wineglass. When the film gets exciting he gets engrossed, but then when the romance subplot comes back around he clearly gets bored and starts looking at James again.

Perversely, all this erases the last of James' lingering uncertainty. One of them has to at least pretend to know what they're doing, and obviously it isn't going to be Jeremy. As usual. For a moment he thinks about how to make the approach and then decides he might as well stick with the classic technique. He swaps his wine glass to the other hand and sets it down on the corner of the coffee table. Then he yawns, expansively, stretching his arms up over his head in an exaggerated gesture that ends with his right arm stretched out along the back of the sofa. He doesn't touch Jeremy at all, but there is less than an inch between them. 

Jeremy flicks him another glance, but James keeps his face turned towards the telly, blandly impassive. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jeremy sitting very still. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly. In another moment Jeremy's head has eased backwards until the nape of his neck is resting on James' arm. 

Over the course of the film Jeremy edges closer; once when there is a particularly sudden explosion he jumps, then eels back into place sheepishly. James finds this perhaps more amusing than he ought to – at least, he spends more time watching his sofa partner than he does the movie, and he's rather surprised when it ends. He grabs for the bottle of wine before either of them can get uncomfortable and gives it a waggle. "Another bottle? You can pick the film this time."

"Yeah, all right," Jeremy says, sounding pleased.

When James comes back from the kitchen with the second bottle Jeremy's picked another DVD and slotted it in; they settle down together on the sofa just as they were. It's not easy, precisely, but it's easier than it had been at first and James rather likes the feeling of Jeremy's weight against his side. By the time the second film's credits have rolled and Jeremy's cab has arrived, it almost doesn't seem strange to give him a squeeze to the shoulder as he goes.

* * *

The next time Jeremy comes over, James gives him only three minutes before doing the arm maneuver, mainly because he does actually want to watch the film rather than spend ages trying to judge the best moment for protecting Jeremy's dignity.

This time, however, Jeremy bursts out laughing. ″May, you idiot,″ he says. ″You don't have to put the moves on me. I'm man enough to admit when I— well. You know.″

″Are you?″ James says pointedly.

″Of course I fucking am,″ says Jeremy.

James lifts his arm and puts it back in his lap, irritated, but it feels awkward like this, unnatural. 

″Oh, Christ, don't be ridiculous,″ Jeremy says. His hand goes to James' wrist, lifting James' arm up again and slinging it over his shoulders. It's a bit like that first time, the same motion, but easy and smooth now instead of the jagged uncertainty of Jeremy's first tentative demand. Different, too, because this time Jeremy doesn't let go immediately – he hangs on, fingers circling James' wrist. ″Just watch the film, will you?″ He gives James' arm a little shake.

″Start it over from the beginning, then,″ James says with a sigh. ″And keep your mouth shut.″

For once, Jeremy actually does as he's told. The film starts again, rolling through the opening sequence and the credits and then into the story proper. It's a good film, and James enjoys watching it, but he's hyper aware of the feeling of Jeremy's hand still holding onto his wrist. It isn't as if they aren't touching elsewhere – the touching is sort of the whole point – but there is a difference between a hug, which can be more or less put down as friendly man contact, and holding hands, which definitely can't. And this feels alarmingly close to holding hands.

Still, Jeremy doesn't appear to think anything of it, and after a while James manages to put it out of his mind.


	3. beginning

It becomes a routine, the nights on the sofa together. They'd had something of an irregular pattern before, with takeout and action films, but it becomes more frequent with the addition of… James doesn't want to say cuddling. But it is pretty much cuddling. His collection of films gets larger, as does the collection of takeout containers in the bin.

They don't do it when they're away, even when they're on a shoot together, but when they're both in London it happens once or twice a week, dinner and a film, Jeremy leaning against James' shoulder or slumped against his chest, halfway to sleep. Even when they sit at the opposite ends of the sofa it's with feet intertwined. James becomes familiar with Jeremy's startling variety of socks, the way he rubs the arch of his foot against the edge of the sofa cushion when it itches. He learns the smell of Jeremy's soap, the way it lingers on him all day unless they've been filming and then it's makeup smell instead.

Sometimes they end up both falling asleep on the sofa – because they're old – and James learns the slow rise and fall of Jeremy's chest, the way he mumbles when he's dreaming. In the morning, Jeremy usually wakes first, and either leaves quietly or settles himself in James' kitchen with coffee and a newspaper. Sometimes he makes toast and bacon. More often he makes charred bread and bacon hard enough to hammer nails with, but after the first few times he at least learns how not to set off the smoke alarm and so James just buys twice as much bacon as he thinks he needs.

It's comfortable. James hadn't really thought he could be this comfortable, sharing his space with someone else – much less with Jeremy – but it's not difficult to get used to this.

* * *

The cenotaph story breaks while they're in London at the new offices. James hears it on the radio on his drive over and he's half-expecting to be greeted with either raucous schadenfreude or morbid musings on how not to fuck it up themselves (as if not fucking it up themselves was any kind of probable outcome). But instead when he walks in the door, late, the whole place is empty but for Jeremy, standing at the window with his back to the room, shoulders bowed. 

James takes in the room at a glance and sees half-drunk mugs of coffee, a sheaf of notes abandoned on the corner of a nearby desk, a pen rolled all the way to the edge and dangling halfway off. Either Jeremy had shouted at them and told them all to get out, or, more likely, Andy had recognized the impending explosion and sent everyone out for frappuccinos (or whatever the fuck it was that interns drank these days). Probably James should clear out, too. 

Instead he crosses the room in a few quick steps. "Jez." He reaches down and touches Jeremy's wrist, lightly at first and then wrapping his fingers around it when Jeremy doesn't pull away.

"It's my fucking legacy," Jeremy says bitterly. "And this is what they're doing with it."

"Yeah," says James. He feels it more for Jeremy than himself – perhaps because he's done so much other work, or perhaps just because, when he's thought about it at all, he's always imagined his own legacy would be something concrete. Something that he'd built with his hands, instead of a mishmash of television bollocks. Some of the bollocks they'd thought out seriously, and some of it had been hastily improvised on location, and quite a large amount of it had been dreamed up while they were in the pub the night before a shoot, and then he'd had to go on and say it or do it on camera anyway because he hadn't thought of anything better. None of that meant 'legacy' to James. But he knew that it did to Jeremy. Every ridiculous second of it.

"I'm sorry, Jez. It's bloody rotten."

"I don't blame Evans," Jeremy says.

_You'll be the only one,_ thinks James. He likes Evans, of course, but he doesn't have any illusions about how the tabloid outrage machine works. Someone has to take responsibility for cock-ups, and for all his faults Jeremy had always been willing to take responsibility for theirs. If Evans isn't going to do that, he'd better get out now.

"We're making another legacy," he says instead. "We'll do it bigger and better."

"We'll fuck it up," says Jeremy, echoing James' thought from only a few minutes ago.

"Of course," says James, and Jeremy turns his head to look at him with furrowed brow. "But we'll fuck it up bigger and better," James says, with deep sincerity, and that's enough to startle a laugh from Jeremy. 

He turns away from the window, reaching over with his free hand to press it on top of James' where they touch. "Thanks. I know I don't need to say it again, but—" He meets James' eyes. "Thanks."

"Of course."

"Don't say anything to Andy, all right?" Jeremy says. "He'll just get all… You know." He lifts his hand and makes a flapping gesture. 

The back of James' hand feels abruptly cold. "Of course," he says again. He gives Jeremy's wrist a squeeze and then lets go.

"I mean, he hurried everyone out of here like he thought I was going to—" The phrase 'punch someone in the face' goes unspoken, but it hangs in the air between them for a long moment before they both burst into laughter.

* * *

Something changes after that, though James can't quite put his finger on what it is. They are easy with each other, easier than they've been in maybe years. The fracas had left them all a bit ragged, but it had also clarified things, made it obvious that they'd stick together no matter what. The moment by the window strips away the last of James' anger, leaving only a bone deep conviction that this is where he's supposed to be. 

Jeremy seems to sense it, too, because he opens up a little more, when they're curled together on the sofa and the credits of some film are rolling. It's not that they haven't talked about personal things before, not precisely, but it's almost always been in the context of a joke, an anecdote. Something to amuse more than mull over. And the moments when they _have_ been stripped of the ability to laugh have always been moments of crisis (Richard's accident, or when James had busted his head open in the middle east, or, more recently, when Jeremy had been sat on a curb outside a hotel with his head in his hands while everyone shouted). 

But now, in the dim light, it isn't much of a surprise when Jeremy pulls his feet up onto the sofa, curling himself around his knees, and says abruptly, "With Francie." He takes a breath. "It wasn't— it wasn't as if I didn't try, you know."

It's the first time he's talked about her, about whatever their problems had been. James hums in encouragement, not daring to move his hand where it rests on the back of Jeremy's neck.

"At the beginning everything was so wonderful. For years. We loved each other and she took care of me and I gave her everything I had to give. It worked, even though I was a bit of a mess, because we knew each other. Deep down, you know?"

James doesn't have the faintest, but he hums again.

"I think… it's a cliché, of course it is, but I think it was spending so much time away that made things start to go wrong. I'd call home every night and we'd try to catch up on things, but after a while it becomes too complicated to explain. Too many in-jokes with other people. Too many moments where you just had to be there. And she wasn't there." He sucks in a breath. "Don't get me wrong, I wasn't there, either. She'd tell me all these stories about the kids or her racing mates or, I don't know, the fucking postman. And I just couldn't get my head round them. The same way she couldn't when I was telling her about that time in Miami."

James twitches at the mention of Miami; Jeremy laughs and says, "That time which we're never mentioning again, I mean." James flicks him on the ear, and he laughs again. Eventually he sobers, though. "So that was it. Everyone thinks it was probably because I cheated, and that's not unreasonable, I suppose. I won't pretend that I didn't think about it, didn't skirt the line sometimes. But she did, too, and none of that is why it didn't work. It was that when I came home, we didn't know each other anymore."

He's gone stiff now; James hugs him a little closer under the guise of pulling up the afghan, as if he himself is cold. "I'm sorry, Jez," he says, knowing it isn't enough. 

"The worst thing was that I could feel it happen, I could see that she felt it, too. We both tried – but she was the first to admit that it wasn't working, and she was right." He scrubs his hands over his face. "She was braver and smarter than me, better than me, right up to the end. Which is just bloody typical."

"Oi," James says, flicking his ear again. "No, no, no. You see, I count being better than you one of my most supreme achievements. So you'd bloody well better not devalue that by lowering the bar."

Jeremy snorts, then laughs, then carries on laughing until he has to turn and rest his face against James' chest to keep from laughing himself off the sofa.

* * *

They go to Wales for the shoot about eco cars. James has been looking forward to this one; they haven't seen each other's cars in advance, which is a tried and true technique for generating hysterical laughter and endless piss-taking during the first half hour of the shoot. And, indeed, he isn't disappointed.

"What on _earth_ kind of brief did you give the engineering team?" Richard says. He's looking at Jeremy's butcher shop on wheels, but James suspects that the question will be turned on him in short order.

"I said 'recycled materials' and 'not something I can set on fire,'" Jeremy says. "I figure we've done enough fire. And then Carolyn said, 'how do you feel about meat?'"

"Which turned into a discussion of your fascination with man-love, I'm guessing," Richard says.

Jeremy opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Well, all right, yes, that did happen."

James laughs, which is unfortunate as it draws attention to himself.

"And what did _you_ say?" Richard asks him. "Was it 'I want to drive like a Neanderthal'? Because usually that's Clarkson's job."

"Har har," James says. "I said, 'I want to fully appreciate the land.' I have to admit that the results were more literal than I had envisioned. What about you? Did you tell them you wanted a cozy little nest for yourself – I mean, for a hedgehog?"

Richard makes an unimpressed face at him.

"Oh no, he's getting all spiky!" says Jeremy. "If he curls up into a ball, we'll be here all day."

"We'll be here all day anyway," James points out.

"Yes, but do we want to do that with him sulking?

"I'm right here," Richard says.

"Oh, are you?" says Jeremy. "You're so small that I hadn't noticed."

Richard growls. "I'm going to go kick Phil until we start," he says, and stomps off.

"We've done it now," James says, but he's grinning.

"So we have. But we should be getting on now anyway."

"Who d'you think will have a disaster first?" James thinks it will probably be himself, but he won't give Jeremy that kind of ammunition.

Jeremy considers. "Depends on if there are any animals in this field. If there are, it'll be me. Otherwise, it'll be you."

"And Hammond?"

"Don't worry, I have a plan."

* * *

They don't manage to get to Jeremy's plan, mainly because James' Land Rover falls apart twenty feet down the field. He'd anticipated it, of course, although he has to admit that he hadn't expected it to happen quite so soon. He'd though they might get into the next paddock, at least.

Once the crew has finished laughing themselves sick, they bring out the equipment for his subsequently planned gag. The bricks are prepared already so half the engineering team gets to work on rebuilding while the others bring out the heavy machinery.

The three of them each get to take a turn on the digger. Jeremy's smile is gleeful as he smashes about making a tremendous mess; the farmer who owns the field will be building a barn here so there's no reason to restrain him. No one has the heart to do it in any case, and so he goes on for quite a while with everyone else standing around and being amused at each other.

When he finally tires of it, he half-stumbles out of the cab; Richard is standing beside it, waiting for his go, and so Jeremy face-plants right into him, sending them both crashing into the grass. James laughs so hard that he has to lean back against his ruined truck for balance.

"You're a cruel bastard, May," Jeremy says, from where he's sprawled on the ground. "You see me here, in my time of need, and yet you leave me buried under an angry hamster."

"Buried!" Richard squawks. " _I'm_ bloody buried. You weigh more than James' mud-mobile!"

"And yet you're the one who's most on top."

James had just about stopped laughing, but he starts up all over again at that. "Please don't tell me anything more about who goes on top," he wheezes. Both Richard and Jeremy make sick noises and roll away from each other immediately. Richard scrambles to his feet, leaving Jeremy flopping around on his back.

No one in the crew moves to help, unsurprisingly, and so after a moment James takes pity and offers a hand to help him up. 

"Your hand's all covered in nature," Jeremy grumbles.

"Your arse is covered in it," James replies. "And your back. And your head. And your—"

"Yes, yes, yes, shut up, shut up," Jeremy says, accepting the hand and levering himself upright. James waits until Jeremy's truly on his own two feet and then lets go of his hand in order to pat him muddily on the cheek.

"Bleagh!" Jeremy says. 

Richard ignores them both and climbs up into the cab of the digger. His feet hang in mid-air for a moment, which makes James snigger and elbow Jeremy in the side, tipping his head in that direction. 

Jeremy laughs. "Try not to get an erection," he calls up. "It'll hit one of the buttons and you'll take Kiff's head off."

"Ha bloody ha," Richard says, but he already sounds delighted.

"Ten quid says he rolls it over," Jeremy says under his breath.

"Given the center of gravity and the essentially pyramidal shape—"

"It's Hammond."

"Fair point," says James. "I think I'll pass on that bet, actually."

Jeremy snorts. "I should've let you take it," he says. "But since, unlike you, I am a kind and generous soul—"

"I have a lot more nature available right here," says James, and Jeremy subsides with a huff.

Richard appears to be having as much fun as Jeremy had, if not more, and James watches him with a fond smile on his face. They've had a tough few months – years, even – and Richard's steadfast loyalty had been part of what kept them together. James can't help but be grateful for it, now that it's got them here: in a field in the sunshine with a laughing crew, just the way things used to be.


	4. there

They finish up the shoot in Wales and head home with the prospect of a few days off. James finds himself more tired than he'd expected after such a pleasant shoot. Maybe he just needs some time away, maybe they all do – but then again, he isn't surprised when Jeremy texts him on the second night with the offer of dinner and beer in exchange for a movie. It isn't a surprise when he finds himself texting back with agreement, either.

The film is a good one, by both their standards, and it's with a smile on his face that James wanders into the kitchen afterwards, setting plates into the sink and rummaging in the cupboard for biscuits.

He'd bought them ages ago, during a previous filming break, and after standing for an indecisive moment in the store, he'd bought the ones that Jeremy liked. Because half of them were going to disappear into Jeremy's mouth anyway, but if they were his favorites, he'd be far less likely to complain while he ate them.

James organizes them on two plates with the plan of giving Jeremy access to only half, and on a whim he makes them into tidy little arcs on each plate, one biscuit just overlapping the one before. He thinks it might get a laugh at his precise little ways – but instead he sees Jeremy's shoulders stiffen, his face go blank.

_Shit._ He'd pressed a button somehow. "Jez…"

"Mum used to do them like that," Jeremy says quietly. "In that little shape."

James puts the plates down hurriedly and sits, throwing his arm over Jeremy's shoulders. Jeremy turns into him, hiding his face for a long moment. That feels normal, James realizes, which makes it perversely weird, and then the fact of his life being weird makes it normal all over again.

"Sorry," Jeremy says after a while, lifting his head. "Promise I won't be all unmanly over you."

"All boys care about their mums," says James. "Nothing unmanly about that." Jeremy laughs. "Tell me about her?" James asks. "If you want, I mean." He'd met Mrs. Clarkson once, during the shoot they'd done with all their mums together back in the early Top Gear days. He can remember liking her, but not much more.

"She was a hell of a mother," Jeremy says immediately, as if he'd just been waiting for the chance. "She was… no nonsense, I guess you'd say. Which, considering that I was always all nonsense, made it difficult sometimes. I think she kept me from the worst of it, though, which was a blessing. I lazed and blustered my way through school but I didn't drop out until I was kicked out that last time, and by then I was old enough to get on in the world. I drove too fast and too stupidly and spent all my money on records, but I didn't set fire to anything or get anyone pregnant or, or, I dunno. Take it into my head to become a bank robber."

James snorts at the mental image of Jeremy with a stocking over his head, carrying a canvas bag labeled with a large pound symbol.

"Yes, I know," Jeremy says, sharing the amusement. "I shudder to imagine it." His smile softened. "I think it was… She loved me, that was the thing. Whatever stupid thing I'd done, she might have been angry or disappointed or tired of bailing me out of trouble, but she loved me. I never ever doubted that." James both envies that sureness and is glad to hear that Jeremy'd had it. "Even right up until she died," Jeremy continues, "she kept on loving me just as much, even though all my mistakes must have been a burden to her in her old age. Always worrying about her little shit of a son."

James gives Jeremy's shoulder a squeeze, unsure how to respond to that. But it must be enough, because Jeremy suddenly smiles and says, "What about you, then? Your mum? I liked her, when we met, when we did that film. Oh, god, mum was thrilled to do that bit. She was so proud that I'd made a success of myself at last, and so happy that I wanted her to be a part of it."

"Mine was, too," James says. "It was—" It's hard for him to talk about this, but he pushes on. "She loved making that film. It surprised me, I think, because she never… I know you had your sister but it's different when you've got a pile of them. Not better or worse, just different. Mum didn't play favorites, still doesn't, but I suppose back then I wished she did." He breathes in, out again. "She supported me when I wanted to do music at university, even though dad was dubious about it. That meant a lot. But I think… there was always something that she kept back for herself. Not just the things that no child should hear about his parents." He waggles his eyebrows at that, and Jeremy laughs. "Just something. She was reserved in some way that I couldn't figure out. Still is, and I still can't figure it out, and it's not the sort of thing you can ask about."

"Is that…" Jeremy trails off.

"Mmm?"

"D'you think that's why you clam up like a pair of pursed lips so much of the time?" Jeremy says it gently but not without humor.

"I should think that if there's any way to clam up, it'd most likely be as a _clam_ ," James says, but he scratches his chin, considering. "I don't know," he says. "I think some of it was just me but probably some was all that other bollocks. Growing up in a household where there was always noise, always talking. It was hard to compete and I guess after a while I just got into the habit of… not bothering. Part of why I wanted to go into journalism, I suppose. To find a place where it was worth the bother, where people actually wanted to hear me talk." He grins. "Bad luck I've ended up working with two idiots who tell me to shut up every five seconds."

"Yes, but I enjoy telling you to shut up," Jeremy says. "It's far more satisfying than telling Hammond to shut up. If you didn't bother talking, I'd be denied that pleasure. So you'd better just go on as you have been."

"Shall I get out my phone and you can say that on the record?" says James, and Jeremy smacks him.

* * *

One night, they are twenty minutes into the film when James realizes that Jeremy's fingers are carding through his hair. 

He flicks his eyes over and finds that Jeremy is, to all appearances, completely absorbed by the film. It could be an act – but all in all James thinks that it probably isn't. Jeremy loves this film, and he generally gives it his entire attention whenever they watch it. And to tell the truth, he isn't _that_ good of an actor, not unless he's merely pretending to be an exaggerated version of himself. No, it's almost certainly automatic, something that he'd done with Francie, and he's just fallen into an old pattern.

The thought makes something odd twist up in James' chest. He knows that he ought to say something to Jeremy, remind him of just where he is and who he's with – but what would that accomplish, other than embarrassing them both? Normally, embarrassing Jeremy would be reason enough to do almost anything, but not now, not like this, when James has gone to so much effort to ease any awkwardness that Jeremy might be feeling.

And the truth is… it's rather nice, having his hair stroked. He had always liked it when Sarah ran her fingers through his hair, and the sensation isn't really much different even now that it's coming from Jeremy's rough, male hands. Jeremy is surprisingly careful with him, working through any tangles he encounters with soft, although idle, patience. 

It makes James feel pleasant and warm in a way that has nothing to do with body heat. They're comfortable with each other, enough for Jeremy not to overthink what his hands are doing. James has made Jeremy comfortable. It's a good feeling.

* * *

They keep talking, somehow giving each other the kinds of truths that they've kept close rather than put out for mockery. Jeremy talks about his first days of newspaper work and the terrible disillusionment of it, the death of his dreams of glamour and all the times he'd made up his mind to give up and get a proper job, then carried on anyway out of sheer bloody-mindedness. The way he'd somehow managed to get the glamour and excitement in the end, but it had come on so gradually that it still didn't seem real. He talks about the way he writes things, ideas half-scribbled onto napkins or texted to friends, the way sometimes he loses all the notes and then finds them again six months later, and they're either laughably outdated or even more brilliant than before. The way music still hits him sometimes, deep in his chest, getting its claws in and holding on tight. The way he's so tired, but he doesn't know any other way to be.

James talks about his choirboy days, university, the moment when he'd realized he simply wasn't talented enough to make a go of music properly and how devastating it had been. Then the civil service, which made him hate himself, made him do wild destructive things just to feel like he wasn't dead inside. And then… and then Top Gear, where he'd been freed of the black dog for the first time in years. He half expects Jeremy to crow about that, but all he gets is a nod and a sad smile and a squeeze of the shoulder, which certainly tells him more about Jeremy's struggles than he'd ever known before.

It feels absurdly as if Jeremy is becoming three dimensional for the first time. It isn't as if James didn't already _know_ that Jeremy has fears and superstitious habits and a well of emotion that goes down deep. But it's always been too easy to fall into seeing just his persona, partly because Jeremy seems determined to make it easy. It's only now - how can it be only _now_? - that James has a glimpse of that other part of Jeremy's life, and he knows that wherever their careers take them, he doesn't want to lose this.

* * *

Time seems to speed up. They go to Amman, Portugal, Morocco. The travel becomes overwhelming for a while, too many cars and too many places, a few days at home between trips but that's barely enough to wash clothes and eat something he'd actually cooked for himself before they head out again.

It's necessary, James knows that – they mustn't lose momentum, they'll want to film with the tent in Rotterdam and Finland without freezing to death, they have to hit the autumn viewing window so they can have a Christmas episode without it being actually the second episode because that would be weird. These are all very sensible reasons. And he'd been bored, in between the disaster and the Amazon contract signing. Part of him is thrilled to be out, running from exotic place to exotic place, once again doing the work he loves.

But filming has its own difficulties – never knowing whether his bed will be comfortable (or even a bed at all), having to work to a trip plan and repeat his best lines over and over even when they've ceased to feel natural, the ever-present reminder that his privacy could be invaded at any moment, should the schedule require. He's been to so many places in the world that even Morocco doesn't give him the sort of thrill that it might have done, once upon a time.

What if he's seen all there is to see? What if he's hit the peak of things and he'll be nothing but a senior citizen from here on out? Maybe he'll turn into one of those people who rehashes the good old days forever, trying to remind himself of what it had been like in his prime, what it had been like when he was really, truly alive.

* * *

Italy in the spring is beautiful, which is no surprise at all. James has thought idly of buying a place here when he retires, somewhere out in the country where he can play piano with the windows open and not worry about bothering his neighbors, somewhere with a few acres of grape vines and a shed for making wine and a barn to fit all his cars and bikes. It's a nice dream, even if it feels a bit too close to his morbid thoughts about aging for comfort. 

Richard is off on another shoot and won't be arriving until tomorrow; in keeping with their grand tour theme, James and Jeremy have decided to attend the Palio di Siena while it's just the two of them. Thankfully, they'd planned this far enough in advance that Amazon had been able to get them a private box in an excellent location, a balcony overlooking the start/finish line. The whole thing is remarkably civilized – by the time they have a fantastic lunch and head over, the crowds are immense already, and it's a relief to step into the cool quiet of the building. Their host takes them up the stairs to the balcony, set with comfortable chairs and a sun-shade and chilled wine. 

The crew makes a perfunctory effort at filming some of the pageants but it's too hot and the activity below too chaotic to make any sort of narrative, so after a brief discussion they decide to keep it short, filming only the race itself and the two of them caught up in the moment. The cameras get stashed away until then and to be honest it's a relief for James to turn off his television persona, to lean back against his seat and drink some very nice rosè and take turns with Jeremy to point out things in the crowd.

By the time the race actually comes around they're pleasantly fizzy, arguing with genial aggression over which of their (selected wholly at random) horses is going to win. It's no trouble at all to film five minutes of shouting at the horses and then ten minutes of celebration afterwards, even though neither of their horses had, in the end, taken home the prize. They stay in the box late into the night, letting the crowds clear out, indulging in the remainder of the buffet and drinking the rest of the wine, and when they finally end up back at the hotel, James falls asleep with just a little bit less turmoil in the back of his head.


	5. were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter previously posted to the Dreamwidth comm - just catching up the AO3 to that.
> 
> I promise I haven't abandoned this story.

In the morning, Richard arrives.

It's not as if this is truly a surprise – the whole thing was scripted months ago. The idea of a grand tour in and of itself isn't particularly entertaining, but a grand tour interrupted by an annoying American bent on spoiling the whole thing will definitely be funny.

And yet it's remarkably easy for James to summon up annoyance at Richard's appearance, at the gigantic, ugly, _vulgar_ Dodge with its absurd horn noise. Easier than he'd like to admit. Because he likes Richard, they're friends, they've actually spent time together voluntarily when not filming. Not recently, he has to admit, but they have done. 

It makes him think about getting old once again. The emotional whiplash keeps throwing him back and forward and back again, an endless succession of moments filled with pleasure and melancholy, comfort and something not far off despair. 

Or maybe it's just that he's not actually that fond of the concept for this film, although it had seemed perfectly good four months ago. He finds himself hating it now – once they're out in the countryside it suddenly seems a pity to have Richard there at all, to have anything that might interrupt the endless stretches of golden fields, wheat and sunflowers all aglow with filmy afternoon sunlight. Above them the sky is a rich lapis, dotted with just enough wool-scrap clouds to make the blue that much more remarkable. James barely wants to break the scenery with himself talking, much less with the endless whine as Richard stomps on the brakes and then on the accelerator, over and over and fucking over.

James grits his teeth and tries to bear it. A little irritation is good, appropriately comedic. But he doesn't want it to spill out between takes, doesn't want to disrupt the camaraderie that is so essential to the way they work together. And this _is_ work, not his own private holiday, so he really has no right to be irritated in any case.

They send Richard off again with half the crew so they can film in the Uffizi. The idea is to do this bit entirely silent, the better to demonstrate Richard being annoying at a distance; a year ago James might have thought it to be an impossible task for Jeremy, and certainly difficult to accomplish logistically. But now they barely need to talk at all when setting up – even the crew seem to sense the hushed atmosphere, murmuring to each other – and once the cameras are on, James and Jeremy can navigate the gallery entirely by raised eyebrow and tilt of shoulder, falling into step and finding a mutually acceptable pace as they move around the room. If they'd ever had a chance to visit a museum for real James could imagine it being like this, although he supposes that they'd be interrupted every five minutes by someone wanting an autograph.

After the Uffizi Richard is back, but he seems to sense some of James' irritation and so keeps the obnoxiousness short, just enough that they can turn it into a segment and then drive on in peace. James rewards his thoughtfulness by sneaking out of their hotel one night to buy a large stash of crisps and candies of the sort that he knows Richard likes. He could have just sent a crew member out for them – Richard could have, too – but he's still a little sensitive about how much trouble they've caused the crew (old and new) over the last year, and anyway it's the thought that counts.

The next morning Richard doesn't say anything when he finds the pile of snacks in the passenger seat of his Dodge, but he's less of a shit than usual. James considers his forty euros well worth it.

When they get to Verona, he and Jeremy have a fancied-up dinner in a restaurant with an absurd number of Michelin stars. Jeremy isn't wearing a tie but he _has_ managed a well-tailored suit and he's scrubbed up better than James has seen in ages. James finds it interesting to see that he's still wearing his silver bangles even with the suit – James hasn't managed to get around to asking about the story behind them, if there is one.

They work their way through dinner at a leisurely pace, occasionally filmed. The crew has been indulged with equal dinners, though, and no one is inclined to put the two of them in the spotlight more than strictly necessary. James drinks some excellent wine and orders whatever the chef wishes; after a moment, Jeremy does, too.

"I'm going to guess Hammond's going for something more specific," Jeremy says.

James flicks a glance over at the next table, where Richard, Andy, Iain, and Cally are peering down at their menus. "I'm sure you're right," he says. "It might have alien tentacles in it."

"Alien tentacles sound rather nice, actually. Bet they'd be juicy."

"Eurgh," says James. "Don't say 'juicy' like that, thanks. It might put me off, and that would be a bloody shame."

"Sorry," says Jeremy, his tone far from apologetic. 

The waiter brings them a plate of little… somethings. They don't look particularly alien-tentacle-esque, but James catches Jeremy's eye and raises an exaggeratedly-dubious eyebrow just the same. Jeremy booms out a laugh. "Don't be a coward," he says.

"If I were a gentleman, I'd call you out for that," says James lazily, but he pours another glass of wine for each of them, watching as Jeremy peers at the odd hors d'oeuvres and then reaches to choose – apparently – exactly the one he wants. Even though they seem pretty much identical. Once he's picked it, he sets it onto his plate, then looks up and apparently sees the amusement in James' expression.

"What?" he says, not quite belligerent.

"Nothing, nothing," James says hastily, but he can't help smiling. It's impossible not to notice how happy – how _himself_ – Jeremy is these days. Maybe it's just because they're making a new show and they have more freedom and the worst of Jeremy's disasters are probably behind them. But maybe it's partly due to what James is giving him – the nights on the sofa, the appreciative audience for his ridiculousness, the small moments of touch. He'd like to think that. He'd like to think he's making a difference.

* * *

Despite James' struggles with traveling, the next time he's home for a little longer than usual – four whole days this time – he finds himself rather at a loss for what to do with himself. He'd wanted solitude, wanted his own bed. But there's nothing interesting on television that he feels like watching or that he hasn't seen already on a plane from someplace to someplace else, and the same is true of books. He could work on one of his dreadful ebay bike purchases or rewire the kettle, but to be honest by the time he familiarizes himself with all the bits it will be time to fly out again. And a man can only eat so much cheesy pasta without getting scurvy.

So instead he sits playing the piano for hours, feebly attempting to regain some of the skill that he's lost through several months of insufficient practice. It's peaceful when he's playing, but eventually his hands are aching and his flat is empty and he still has another evening to get through, and that's when he picks up his phone, fires off a text before he can over-think it. 'Do you want to come over?' 

It's not as if he expects Jeremy to have his phone on him, to make responding to James a priority, but it stings all the same when it takes nearly half an hour to get a reply. 'Not tonight. I've got a proper fish and chips in front of me already and I think seeing your ugly mug might put me off it, which would be epically tragic.' It's a fairly typical text from Jeremy, if James is honest – his amiable piss-taking doesn't stop just because he can't see someone's reaction – but though he'd usually respond with a similar jab, something about how Jeremy doesn't need the food, perhaps, tonight it leaves him feeling distinctly out of sorts. He could call Richard instead – but Richard has his family to be looking after. So, for that matter, do all of James' other mates. And anyway they're supposed to be going to France tomorrow.

He goes to the pub instead – not his local, but another that he's been to on occasion, where the regulars know him well enough not to crowd around and gawp but not so well that they ignore him completely. James drinks a couple of beers to loosen himself up, plays three or four rounds of darts while drinking a couple more. He quits with the darts when his aim begins to get more than usually shit and moves on to billiards, letting some of the more friendly blokes gently fleece him of the cash he's carrying. It's a small price to pay for an evening of entertainment and anyway it isn't as if he'll miss it. 

It's only when closing time arrives and he comes all the way upright that he realizes he's more shit-faced than he'd anticipated. Coming on for properly rat-arsed, in fact. He gets as far as the door under his own power, aided by the fact that the tables are spaced just close enough together to provide a convenient hand hold, but as he steps over the threshold something goes a bit wrong and he finds himself going arse-over-teakettle down onto the pavement.

The visit to A&E is as charming as it ever is – James signs approximately a billion autographs, though he's still fairly wobbly and they have to be done with his other hand, to boot, so they're even more of a scrawl than usual. When he gets home at last in the early hours of the morning, he sags down onto the sofa, too exhausted to even make it as far as the bed, and is asleep within seconds.

* * *

He wakes too late for the train, with a splitting headache and a mouth that tastes like a rodent has shat in it. Repeatedly. Application of painkillers and instant coffee takes off the worst of it, but it comes back with a vengeance when he has to pick up the phone and call Andy to confess.

"You've done _what_?"

"Look, I know it was stupid."

"Stupid doesn't even begin to cover it, James."

"I know, I know."

"Idiotic. Moronic. Absolutely a complete imbecile."

" _I know,_ all right."

"I thought you'd be less trouble than Jeremy, you know," Andy says gloomily.

"At least I've only injured _myself_ ," James offers, and he doesn't know whether that's a joke too far but in the end Andy does laugh rather than shout. 

"Yes, well," he says.

"I'll be fine," James says. "It's France, not Namibia."

"You bloody well _will_ be fine," Andy says. "Now stop being an arse and go and get on the next train. There's one that will get you there by eleven and you can drive the automatic."

"I—"

"This is the point where you say, 'Yes, Mr. Wilman.'"

James sighs. "Yes, Mr. Wilman," he says, and checks the clock. If he gives himself only three minutes to shower, he can probably make it.

* * *

When he gets to France, everyone is waiting in the terminal; James can see them all down at the other end of the concourse as he comes out through customs and his steps slow. It was daunting enough having to explain himself to Andy and it will be ten times as bad having to explain himself to the crew or, worse, to Jeremy, who can be incredibly aggressive when he thinks someone isn't doing their best work. Still, it's inevitable, and he forces himself to trudge all the way down rather than just turn left and fling himself into the sea instead. 

When he gets close enough, they all turn to watch him approach, and James forces something like a smile onto his face. "Morning," he says.

"Have you actually broken your arm?" Richard says.

"Yes," James bites out, and then, "Well, it's fractured. But broadly, yes."

"How the bloody hell did you do that?"

"I fell down."

"From what, a third floor window?"

Christ, Richard is testing his patience and they've barely said ten words to each other.

"Not _from_ anything. Or from my feet, if you insist on being pedantic. I was pissed, all right?"

"Pissed?" Richard says. "The night before a shoot? What were you _thinking_?"

"What do you mean, what was I thinking?" James says. "I was thinking 'I'd quite like to have a drink' and then, a bit later, 'oops.' A sensation with which I am sure you are not unfamiliar." He leaves Richard trying to untangle that and turns to the set producer. "Are we ready, then?"

* * *

They stuff him into the back of a hire car with Jeremy and a pile of camera equipment – although not as much equipment as the other car, out of some small deference to James' injury – and head to the track. Katie is driving and after a while she checks out of the conversation just to concentrate, keep eyes on the road and the other cars in their group, make sure she knows at least vaguely where they're going. James is happy to let the conversation die, too, mainly because he's hungover and exhausted and his arm hurts. He doesn't know what Jeremy is thinking. They hadn't had much chance to talk, in the terminal, but that was more because of the flurry of activity than anything else.

Perhaps that's all to the good, since it had meant that Jeremy couldn't give him a bollocking in front of everyone. Maybe he'll do it now, with only Katie to witness, and at least then it will be over.

But it doesn't come. Jeremy seems content to stare out the window at the dismal grey skies. It might be the calm before the storm or it might be that he's gauging just exactly how much he can take the piss about France's supposedly beautiful weather. That was the trouble with Jeremy. One never knew. Even after so many nights spent talking about the things they didn't talk about, James still doesn't know him as well as he might wish.

At last they get off the motorway. The turn at the end of the ramp is just a little too sharp; James has to jam his good arm hurriedly against the pile of equipment to keep from slamming all his weight onto the broken one. It's only a moment, but it's enough to make him huff out a breath and go perhaps a little white-faced with the strain of it. Then Jeremy is there, tugging the bag away and giving James more room to maneuver.

"Thanks," James mutters, when he can breathe properly again. 

Jeremy waves it off, but after a moment he leans across the pile of bags and puts a hand on James' shoulder. "Are you really all right?" he murmurs, and James feels his stomach turn over. It's just… it's nice, having someone actually give two fucks about how he is. "Last night," Jeremy says, voice still barely audible. "I shouldn't've… if you wanted to talk…"

"Just bored," James says. He's vaguely aware that it isn't quite the truth, but it's the best he can offer. He shrugs, then lifts his good hand to press over Jeremy's – it's an awkward angle for the gesture but he feels better once he's done it. "I'm fine, Jez. Honestly, you don't need to fuss. I've survived far worse consequences of my own stupidity."

Jeremy snorts at that, but he squeezes James' shoulder before letting go.

* * *

Waiting around in the train terminal had obviously given the team too much time to think of cheap gags, because when they get to the track there is a mechanic waiting with one of those steering aid handles, ready to be fitted to the wheel of James' automatic Maserati, as well as – it becomes clear – a selection of ridiculous things to cover the knob, none of which James is allowed to see in advance. Jeremy takes the box away and rifles through them, then presents James with the rubber penis as if it's a gourmet meal on a silver platter. James groans but tilts his head in acceptance, figuring that at least it will allow them to get the knob=knob joke out of the way as early as possible and save the presumably funnier ones for later on.

But despite the piss-taking, they do take into account the fact that he's in pain – or, at least Jeremy does, tells everyone they'll make a joke of it in the edit. Which means James can sit by the side of the track being silently hungover while Richard gleefully races against the Celerio. The crew does a bit of film of James looking morose in his car, and morose out of his car, and necking painkillers like they're going out of style, and then they disappear back out onto the track to get better shots of the other two. James scrubs his face with his good hand and then, after a moment's consideration, leans down to rest his forehead on the table. Eventually Jeremy returns to join him, but he doesn't say a word and so James stays there, letting the cold of the tabletop seep into his heated forehead, until they have to move on.

* * *

The rain doesn't let up, and it weighs on the crew, anyone can see that. That evening Phil gathers them all together in the hotel lounge and they hash out options for adjusting the film narrative. Richard gives James a sardonic look and suggests they just choose 'utter misery' as the theme. Jeremy rolls his eyes but James just thinks, _oh, what the hell,_ and says, "If we add in 'France is shit,' then sure, I'm up for it."

The idea will fit with their planned ending, but it doesn't make sense to get there too quickly. Which means another few days of pretending they're doing what they came here for. James is too drug-fuzzed to enjoy himself much, but at least the food is decent – the French being good for that, if nothing else – and the steering wheel knob gags do get funnier. Jeremy keeps looking at him out of the corner of his eye and James braces himself to be asked again (and again, and again) if he's all right, but Jeremy says nothing and eventually James spushes away the thought and does what he does best, which is get on with things.


End file.
